what were you doing with yourself before you met me.
I wanted to be a writer.
A writer! What kind of writer?
He told her the story he had conceived.
Are you interested in the race? she demanded, scorn in her tone.
I'm interested in you.
That's no answer. Giving him no opportunity to reply, she rapidly went on, Yes, I suppose it might be said of me that I am a Negro, but as I once informed you, I never permit that fact to make any difference. I loathe the race. Niggers are treacherous and deceitful. You'll never get anywhere if you depend on them. Why, that silly Sylvia actually tried to take a man away from me one night. Ihad my revenge. I showed her up for the weak, pitiful thing she really is. Well, they detest me because I get what I want. They'll hate you if you're a good writer and yet in that foolish story of yours you make out an ironic defence for them.
It's only a story, after all, Byron commented lamely.
I know—only a story. Well, let me tell you something. . . . Her tone was bitter and hard. . . . If you want to write about Niggers, show them up. Hit them, bully them! These raceleaders! These uplifters! They all make me sick. The black motto is: Drag down the topmost, no
